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Authors: Michael Dobbs
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high-class money launderer. ‘And my ball, mister.’
‘So where is Miss Ranelagh?’
‘Miss Ranelagh? Why, that’s right there, ain’t it?’ Kenny exclaimed as though he were dealing with a dimwit. He pointed. They were standing almost directly outside the
house. The boy grabbed his ball back from Harry and scampered off to join his playmates.
The clapboard house was probably a four-bedroom, Harry reckoned, scrupulously neat and pastel pink with shutters on its sash windows and an elegant porch above its front door. The roof was
startlingly white, the front garden small but manicured with just enough room for a couple of graceful palm trees. The property was approached from the road by a short semicircular drive. Far from
ostentatious but impressive. As his hand wrapped around the brass cloverleaf knocker he still had no clear idea of what he should say. In the event it proved not to be a problem. Susannah Ranelagh
opened the front door, took one long look at Harry, went several shades of grey and fainted into his arms.
CHAPTER FIVE
Susannah Ranelagh recovered her senses but had yet to recover her wits. Harry had taken her through to her sitting room and fetched a glass of water. ‘Come on, take a
sip,’ he encouraged, kneeling beside her. She opened her eyes and stared; they were still swollen with torment.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you, Miss Ranelagh.’ He drew back to give her some space.
‘No, no,’ she protested, brushing strands of grey hair back from her forehead, ‘it’s not your fault. At my age you get moments like this. Should’ve had a proper
breakfast.’ Her voice retained an Irish lilt, the words rushing forth like waves brushing against the sandstone rocks of the Kerry shoreline where she had been raised.
‘My name is Harry Jones,’ he announced.
And who else could he be? she thought, with those deep eyes, the broad forehead and that mouth with its downturned, determined corners? There was an inner energy, too, like his father had
possessed and which this younger version exuded with every breath.
‘I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?’ she said, finishing the glass of water and sitting back into her armchair, trying to affect the look of a woman once more at her
ease despite the trembling in her hand.
‘Harry Jones. I think you knew my father.’
‘Oh, really?’ she replied.
‘Johnnie Maltravers-Jones. I think you were on the yacht when he died in Greece. Two thousand and one.’
Dear God, he knew – but how much? She felt the flood of panic rising inside her once again and trying to drown her senses. She willed herself to be strong, not to let everyone down.
‘Ah, yes, of course. He was your father, you say. Such a tragedy. My condolences, Mr Jones.’
‘Thank you. That’s kind. I wonder, did you know my father well?’
As well as your mother did, she screamed silently. The panic was beginning to gain ground. Was this a trick question? But there was a steadiness in his eye and an openness in his face that
suggested nothing but genuine concern.
‘I was simply a fellow passenger,’ she replied, spreading her hands in apology.
‘I know so little about the circumstances of his death, even why he was on board.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Jones, I don’t think I can help you. I was little more than a hitchhiker cadging a lift.’
‘From whom?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean, who offered you the lift? Who else was on board?’
‘But it was such a long time ago.’
‘Please, anything you can remember. Names, descriptions. There was a younger woman on board, wasn’t there? Where was the boat sailing from, going to? Can you tell me that?’
He leaned forward, eager, but in Miss Ranelagh’s eyes he was like a mugger preparing to pounce.
‘I’m an old lady,’ she wailed.
‘What can you remember of my father? Anything. Any recollection, no matter how small. You must surely remember something,’ he pressed.
By this point the flutter
‘So where is Miss Ranelagh?’
‘Miss Ranelagh? Why, that’s right there, ain’t it?’ Kenny exclaimed as though he were dealing with a dimwit. He pointed. They were standing almost directly outside the
house. The boy grabbed his ball back from Harry and scampered off to join his playmates.
The clapboard house was probably a four-bedroom, Harry reckoned, scrupulously neat and pastel pink with shutters on its sash windows and an elegant porch above its front door. The roof was
startlingly white, the front garden small but manicured with just enough room for a couple of graceful palm trees. The property was approached from the road by a short semicircular drive. Far from
ostentatious but impressive. As his hand wrapped around the brass cloverleaf knocker he still had no clear idea of what he should say. In the event it proved not to be a problem. Susannah Ranelagh
opened the front door, took one long look at Harry, went several shades of grey and fainted into his arms.
CHAPTER FIVE
Susannah Ranelagh recovered her senses but had yet to recover her wits. Harry had taken her through to her sitting room and fetched a glass of water. ‘Come on, take a
sip,’ he encouraged, kneeling beside her. She opened her eyes and stared; they were still swollen with torment.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you, Miss Ranelagh.’ He drew back to give her some space.
‘No, no,’ she protested, brushing strands of grey hair back from her forehead, ‘it’s not your fault. At my age you get moments like this. Should’ve had a proper
breakfast.’ Her voice retained an Irish lilt, the words rushing forth like waves brushing against the sandstone rocks of the Kerry shoreline where she had been raised.
‘My name is Harry Jones,’ he announced.
And who else could he be? she thought, with those deep eyes, the broad forehead and that mouth with its downturned, determined corners? There was an inner energy, too, like his father had
possessed and which this younger version exuded with every breath.
‘I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?’ she said, finishing the glass of water and sitting back into her armchair, trying to affect the look of a woman once more at her
ease despite the trembling in her hand.
‘Harry Jones. I think you knew my father.’
‘Oh, really?’ she replied.
‘Johnnie Maltravers-Jones. I think you were on the yacht when he died in Greece. Two thousand and one.’
Dear God, he knew – but how much? She felt the flood of panic rising inside her once again and trying to drown her senses. She willed herself to be strong, not to let everyone down.
‘Ah, yes, of course. He was your father, you say. Such a tragedy. My condolences, Mr Jones.’
‘Thank you. That’s kind. I wonder, did you know my father well?’
As well as your mother did, she screamed silently. The panic was beginning to gain ground. Was this a trick question? But there was a steadiness in his eye and an openness in his face that
suggested nothing but genuine concern.
‘I was simply a fellow passenger,’ she replied, spreading her hands in apology.
‘I know so little about the circumstances of his death, even why he was on board.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Jones, I don’t think I can help you. I was little more than a hitchhiker cadging a lift.’
‘From whom?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean, who offered you the lift? Who else was on board?’
‘But it was such a long time ago.’
‘Please, anything you can remember. Names, descriptions. There was a younger woman on board, wasn’t there? Where was the boat sailing from, going to? Can you tell me that?’
He leaned forward, eager, but in Miss Ranelagh’s eyes he was like a mugger preparing to pounce.
‘I’m an old lady,’ she wailed.
‘What can you remember of my father? Anything. Any recollection, no matter how small. You must surely remember something,’ he pressed.
By this point the flutter
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